The clock on the clinic wall buzzed with an erratic, electric hum, the cheap plastic casing vibrating against faded yellow drywall. Eleven-fourteen

The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was a glittering sea of champagne flutes, black tuxedos, and silk gowns that cost more than sports cars. Crystal chandeliers hung from the soaring frescoed ceilings, casting thousands of dancing prisms across the diamonds dripping from the necks of New York’s high society.

Briar Lennox hardly recognized herself in the gilded mirrors lining the grand staircase.

Damien’s personal stylists had descended upon her guest room at four in the afternoon. They had swept her dark, unruly curls into an elegant, loose chignon that framed her delicate neck, enhanced her striking green eyes with smoky kohl, and dressed her in a floor-length emerald silk backless gown that clung to her slender curves like liquid water. Around her throat rested the serpent diamond pendant, cold and heavy against her collarbone.

Beside her, walking with steady, regal dignity, was Baron.

The colossal silver hound wore a discreet, custom leather harness adorned with understated platinum hardware. He was no longer the dying husk from forty-eight hours ago; he walked with the broad-chested menace of a lion patrolling his territory.

And flanking her other side was Damien Ashworth.

He wore a midnight-black tuxedo that broadened his already massive shoulders, his watch gleaming platinum, radiating an aura of lethal sophistication that caused conversations to die and guests to part like the Red Sea the moment his polished Oxford shoes touched the marble floor.

"Chin up, Briar," Damien murmured, his hand resting firmly, possessively at the small of her bare back. The heat of his palm seared through her skin. "They want to see you break. Give them nothing."

"They're staring like I’m an intruder," she muttered under her breath, keeping her eyes forward.

"You are an intruder," Damien countered smoothly, a smirk playing on his lips. "You represent everything they fear: someone who didn't buy their way into my circle."

Across the crowded floor, Genevieve Vance stood surrounded by a cluster of wealthy socialites and elderly board members. The moment her eyes landed on Briar—and more importantly, on the emerald serpent resting on Briar’s chest—her champagne glass trembled in her grip, spilling vintage Krug onto the polished floor.

"Is that... Ashworth’s dog?" an elderly senator whispered, adjusting his spectacles. "I thought Vance Logistics reported the beast was deceased!"

"And who is that girl?" another voice murmured. "She looks like an Italian painting. Is she an heiress from Chicago?"

Damien guided Briar through the crowd toward the VIP balcony, where the inner council of the Maritime Exchange sat drinking bourbon. Among them sat an older man with silver hair, an impeccably trimmed beard, and cold, calculating blue eyes—Marcus Vance, Genevieve’s father and the vice chairman of the shipping syndicate.

As they approached, Baron’s stride suddenly changed.

The fur along the spine of the Caucasian Shepherd stood straight up. His ears pinned back against his skull, and a low, subsonic vibration began in the depths of his massive chest.

Briar felt the dog’s harness tighten instantly. She placed a calm, gentle hand on Baron’s broad neck, her fingers sinking into his silver mane. Easy, boy, she thought, leaning down slightly. I’m right here.

Marcus Vance stood up, offering a broad, theatrical smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Damien, my boy! We were worried you wouldn't make the keynote. And look at Baron! A complete miracle. We were led to believe his passing was imminent."

Marcus extended his right hand toward Damien.

Instantly, Baron lunged.

The dog let out an ear-splitting, earth-shaking roar that echoed off the chandeliers, snapping his jaws shut merely two inches from Marcus Vance’s outstretched wrist. Women screamed. Champagne glasses shattered against the floor. Security guards instantly reached for their holsters.

"Down! Baron, heel!" Briar cried, her voice clear, commanding, and firm.

The hundred-and-fifty-pound beast stopped instantly, his jaws trembling with rage, his amber eyes burning into Marcus Vance. He didn't bite, but his teeth remained bared, a warning of absolute carnage.

Damien didn't flinch. He didn't even drop his hands into his pockets. He stared at Marcus Vance with dead, soulless gray eyes.

"Interesting reaction, Marcus," Damien said softly, the silence of the ballroom hanging on his every word. "Baron has always had an exceptional memory for scent. Especially the scent of almond."

Marcus went completely white. His jaw twitched, his hand retreating into his jacket. "Damien, control your mutt. He’s rabid! He should be put down on the spot!"

"Almond is the base scent of bitter cyanide compounds," Damien continued, stepping directly into Marcus’s personal space, towering over the older man. "The same compound found in the imported meat deliveries delivered to my penthouse three mornings ago. Deliveries signed for by your private chauffeur, Marcus."

A wave of gasps rippled through the elite crowd. Genevieve rushed forward, her face frantic. "Damien, that’s absurd! My father would never—"

"I have the security footage, Genevieve," Damien interrupted, slicing through her words like an executioner’s axe. "And I have the offshore bank wire your father sent to my estate manager’s Swiss account forty-eight hours before Baron stopped breathing."

Damien snapped his fingers.

Within seconds, four federal agents in sharp suits, accompanied by NYPD detectives, stepped out from the shadows of the ballroom exits.

"Marcus Vance," the lead agent announced, flashing a badge. "You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, corporate sabotage, and wire fraud."

As the handcuffs clicked around Marcus’s wrists, chaos erupted across the ballroom. Press cameras flashed, reporters shouted, and Genevieve collapsed into tears of humiliation as her father was marched away.

Amidst the blinding flashes and screaming voices, Briar stepped backward, keeping her hand securely on Baron’s collar. She had done her job. The beast was avenged, the traitor was caught.

She looked toward the grand exit, preparing to slip away into the night before Damien could remember his promise.

Then, a harsh, heavy hand grabbed her upper arm from the shadows behind the marble pillars, twisting her backward into a dark service corridor.

A rag soaked in chloroform was slammed violently against her nose and mouth.

Briar thrashed, her eyes widening in sheer terror as a familiar, raspy voice hissed into her ear from the dark.

"Found you, little bird. Did you really think you could run from me to New York?"